And now? Now comes the sacred weirdness of the after.

That strange, suspended moment when the credits roll, everyone claps, and then disappears… and I’m just sitting here—in my mid-century modern sanctuary, perched in the NYC skyline—ankle wrapped, Hokas off, letting the quiet settle in.

And asking myself the most obvious question of all:

What the hell am I supposed to do with myself now?

Here’s the secret no one tells you about finishing something epic:

There’s no Jimmy Fallon and the roots welcome band for the after. No fanfare. No map. Just a gorgeous silence full of possibility… and a few blunt questions whispering from the corner.

But if I’m asking what’s next, I already know I’m not done.

So let’s walk through it.

Now what?

The good news? I’ve earned the right to not know. I just crossed the entire country in a pair of Hokas (or 8) and more emotional grit than I knew I had.

I don’t need a five-year plan.

I get to sit in the wonder.

Let the ‘what now’ swirl around without demanding it land neatly in a to-do list.

I am writing the book.

Because this story doesn’t belong locked in my head or scribbled in captions.

This was a walk—but it was also a reckoning. A remembering. A reintroduction to myself.

There were tears. Hammock times and Gas station apples that tried to kill me.

Strangers who became friends. Friends who showed up like lifelines.

And Gertrude—the chariot. The myth. The legend. It’s all going in the book.

I am making the documentary.

Because this wasn’t just a story—it was a visual sermon.Sometimes shaky. Often unfiltered. Always real. The story isn’t over—it’s just changing mediums.

Working title?

Keep Me Posted: A Love Letter to a Country I Walked to Understand.

“Stamp at the Stigma” / Mental Fitness Advocacy

I didn’t just walk across the country—I mailed a message coast to coast:

Mental fitness matters.

Grief deserves a language.

And we are allowed to talk about what hurts before it kills us.

So yeah, I’m pitching everyone who will listen. I’m building curriculum. I’m designing movement—literal and metaphorical.  If it takes a giant emotional-support mailbox sculpture to make people pay attention, so be it.

This lane is mine.

I am planning the next adventure.

And it may not involve miles. It might be more soul than sole.

It could be retreats, podcasts, strange city rooftops, or hammocks under borrowed stars.

I don’t need a plane ticket to chase wonder.

Sometimes the next epic thing starts in my own living room—with a broken ankle and a new idea.

I am resting and reorienting.

Because let’s be real—I’ve been through it. The rain, the roadside breakdowns, the unexpected kindness, the highway shoulders, the spiritual detours, the realignment, the release.

And now?

I’m giving myself stillness.

Real food. Quiet rooms. No performance. No pressure. A swing in Maple. A scribble in a journal. A deep exhale I didn’t know I was holding.

I recently read ‘You can’t expect peace when you’re at war with yourself’. And I had been, for a long time.

But this journey—this beautiful, brutal, sacred journey—gave me peace.

Not the kind you stumble upon, but the kind you earn. The kind you carry home in your bones.

This chapter isn’t about applause. It’s about permission.

I’m not lost. I’m just grounded—in a sacred space between what I just survived and what I’m brave enough to build next.

There’s a book.

A documentary.

A national hammock movement

whispering in my ear, there’s a woman in a skyline sanctuary, cracked open and on fire in the best possible way.

And if you’re wondering what happens next?

Stick around.

I’ll keep you posted.

L